Page 82 of Worse Than Wicked
His mouth twists up in a ghost of a smile. “You’d still be mine, little monster. Your corpse would be my puppet, and when your flesh rotted away, you’d be my bones.”
He smashes his mouth down on mine again, this time with hunger, passion. I pull away, knowing if I let him get worked up, he’ll want sex, and then I’ll be bloody and need a shower, and I don’t know how long Dahlia will wait. I’m not even sure she’ll be there when I reach the treehouse if I leave now.
“I have to go.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Baron growls against my lips, and it sounds more like a threat than a sexy promise. I shiver and pull away, and he chuckles at my discomfort.
But he lets me go.
It’s more than I expected. I didn’t think he’d leave me alone with her, and the fact that he did lets me know exactly how much she impressed him. Maybe he even wants her to come after him. Then, he can finally prove himself if he outsmarts her and lives. There’s nothing that makes Baron Dolce feel more alive than a challenge, so a challenge that could end in death would be the highpoint of his existence.
What would be the low point?
I think about that as I hurry through the woods until I find the old stone boundary and step over it onto Delacroix property. Losing a contest of wills and intelligence against Dahlia wouldn’t be Baron’s nightmare. He considers her aworthy opponent, so to die at her hands would be honorable in his mind. He would fight his hardest to live, of course. Unlike Duke, he doesn’t entertain notions of right and wrong, of self-sacrifice or atonement. But if she won, he would still be proud to have given her a good fight.
When I reach the tree, I still haven’t figured it out completely, but I don’t think death is the worst outcome for Baron. If it is, a death at the hands of someone he considers far beneath him, or a random accident, would be the ultimate insult. Someone like Jane, or back in high school, Dixie.
I climb, hand over hand, up the broken rungs nailed to the tree, tossing the snack bag up before I scramble over the lip and onto the platform. Dahlia is perched in a branch like a cat ready to descend on her prey.
“Did you bring the boy?” she asks.
“He stayed home to clean up.”
“You’ve trained him well.” She drops down onto the platform next to me.
I laugh quietly. If she’s following me online, she definitely hasn’t been spying with cameras in my apartment like Baron did. Otherwise, she would know it’s the opposite.
But I don’t correct her because I want her to think well of me. Her compliment gives me the same feeling of success that Baron’s do, like I’ve earned something special.
“Sorry, but I gotta ask. Are you wearing a wire?”
“No,” I say, pulling up my shirt, then unzipping and letting her see my waistband.
She pulls out a device and scans it over me before she steps back. “I know, that’s rude,” she says. “Can’t be too careful, though. Anyone can double cross you.”
“I get it,” I assure her as she scans my picnic bag before putting up her equipment.
She sits cross-legged and begins tugging off her gloves one finger at a time. “No men, so I guess we don’t get to feast preying mantis style,” she says. “What have you got?”
“Sweet tea,” I say, handing her the thermos while I spread the picnic blanket and lay out our haul. “Honey buns, cupcakes, strawberry shortcakes, crackers, cream cheese, strawberry preserves…”
When I’m done setting up, she smiles. “No sparkling grape juice?”
“Oh—no,” I say. “We didn’t have any. I’m sorry. Should I have gone to get some? I still can, if you’ll wait here…”
“I’m kidding,” she says, cracking a smile.
“Oh,” I say faintly. I’m not usually one to get flustered, but I’m not usually one to care. This is Dahlia, though.
“You don’t remember?” she asks. “We used to pretend it was champagne.”
“I remember.”
“Oh,” she says, picking up a sleeve of crackers and tearing it open. “Cool. So, you really didn’t know it was me?”
“No,” I admit. “I thought it was Baron for a long time. He’s the type, you know. Possessive. Doesn’t like other men touching me.”
“Ah,” she says. “Explains the mess. Crimes of passion will do that.”
